


Danny Clueless

by JayMor



Series: Teen Wolf Mixtape [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Danny, BAMF Stiles, Bad Friend Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), M/M, Peter Hale is Not Amused, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski is Pushed Out of the Pack, but he likes Stiles best, just a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24567859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayMor/pseuds/JayMor
Summary: “You’d think with their condition they’d stop planning shit on the full moon.”And Stiles freezes. Because that was Danny—innocent Danny, clueless Danny, somehow unaware of all the shit going down in Beacon Hills Danny—bitching about Lydia’s upcoming party (that of course the rest of the pack was going to be at) like he knew something.
Relationships: Danny Mahealani/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Teen Wolf Mixtape [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1430560
Comments: 87
Kudos: 1733
Collections: Fav Recs, Teen Wolf





	Danny Clueless

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles has had a rough run, what with the Nogitsune and all the murder (that he didn’t even commit) and Scott (wonderful pure idealistic idiotic brother) becoming the new Alpha of Beacon Hills. And sure, maybe being the pack’s resident squishy human isn’t the most exciting thing, but Stiles is a spark, and his magic is getting stronger. So it’s a surprise when Stiles goes to a pack meeting about the week’s resident big bad, only to discover that actually, it’s about him (or more accurately, about how they don’t want him anymore). It leaves Stiles reeling, until one day Stiles overhears Danny (sugar-sweet, smile like candy) complaining about the full moon like maybe Stiles isn’t the only one on the outside (not pack-adjacent, pack-ignored) who knows something.
> 
> TBH not beta-read bc I'm lazy, and also the longest one-shot I've ever written. This has been one of my most favorite things to write ever. I love BAMF Stiles, and Danny is one of my fave underrated Teen Wolf characters.
> 
> Originally this was only going to be like a 2k friendship oneshot but instead it's a monster here you are I hope you like it.

It starts like this: the pack in Derek’s loft, fighting over pizza, and Scott (sweet Scott, innocent Scott, all-too-hurtful Scott) talking through the cacophony, like it’s casual, like what he has to say is as simple as the forecast, like no one else needs to pay attention, saying, “Hey Stiles, you don’t need to come to pack meetings anymore.”

And Stiles is scrambling, because who will do research? (“Lydia,” Scott says.) Who will handle the mountain ash? (“There are other non-were's in the pack. Less-breakable ones,” chides Isaac.) But isn’t he pack? Stiles should be at these meetings. He needs to know what’s going on. (Scott’s eyes melt into gooey brown condescension. “You’re my brother Stiles. I love you man. But you’re human. You don’t heal like us. We gotta keep you out of it or you’re going to get hurt. I can’t let you get hurt.”) And it’s bizarre, because Stiles is already in it. He’s already _been hurt_ (hurt by Derek, hurt by Gerard, hurt by Jennifer Blake, hurt by Peter, hurt by Jackson, hurt by Kate, hurt by the Nogitsune). He’s in far too deep to back out now.

But he has to in the end. Scott stares at him with soft puppy eyes and doesn’t give him a choice (all but shoves him out the door, the rest of the pack watching it happen, Peter’s lips twisted like he’s eaten something sour, until the door slams behind him and Stiles finds himself standing there shell-shocked and listening to the rain ping off Roscoe). The worst part is how Scott phrased it, like he was doing Stiles a favor, like he did it because he _cared_. (He didn’t have the chance to tell the pack about his spark, to tell them that it’s getting stronger, to say he can heal himself as quickly as a wolf now and make fire dance in the palms of his hands and move the wind that blows through the trees.)

Stiles gets in his car and drives home.

(It’s not like home is much better anyway. His dad isn’t there, the whiskey bottle is emptier than it was last night, and the security footage of the Nogitsune wearing Stiles’ face and setting the hospital on fire is still queued up on his dad’s computer.) 

The next day, school is weird. Scott greets him the same (like he didn’t abandon him, didn’t reject him), walks with him to class, sits in the same seat. But at lunch he looks at Stiles and says, “hey, mind sitting somewhere else this time? We have to talk pack business.”

And Stiles does. He takes his lunch and eats in the bathroom (in the far-left stall, the smallest one where people go to hook up and a lewd but surprisingly realistic picture of Jackson making out with a snake is sharpied on the door). When the bell rings he washes his hands and goes to English and tries not to feel like he’s back in middle school again, scared of everyone and grieving the loss of his mother except this time it’s his brother he’s grieving, and nobody’s dead (except Allison, and really, maybe that’s why Scott doesn’t want him anymore, because Stiles isn’t pure, isn’t clean, is a murderer now). Lydia and Jackson are sitting behind him whispering about pixies or trolls or something and when the teachers calls them out for talking in class Lydia covers with a smooth, “Sorry Ms. Chandler we were just talking about Gawain’s interactions with the faeries.”

Stiles wonders if faeries are this week’s big bad.

At lacrosse practice Derek is scowling in the bleachers next to Lydia who has a big leather-bound book open on her lap (“It’s a collector’s edition of _Grimm’s Fairytales_ ,” she says to a classmate when they ask, brushing the question aside with a smile and a wave of her hand. Stiles knows for a fact it’s the Hale bestiary). Jackson and Scott work together like a dream and when Finstock yells for Stiles to _get your rear in gear Bilinski_ Stiles puts down his lacrosse stick and walks off the field.

(Afterall, what’s the point of playing when all he does is sit on the bench and his best friend is too busy with Jackson, with his _pack_ , to even glance at the soft squishy human?)

It’s Finstock who yells after him.

“I don’t let quitters play Bilinksi! You walk off this field and you’ll never see game time again!” It surprises Stiles how little that makes him care.

The next few weeks pass uncomfortably uneventful. The faeries (pixies? trolls?) must have been taken care of, because next thing he knows Stiles overhears Lydia and Jackson discussing wendigos and there’s a murder or two and his dad works overtime. But nothing happens to Stiles. Instead he goes to class, eats in the bathroom, goes home, does homework, sits there and stares at his wall and wonders what the hell he’s doing with his life, rinse and repeat.

But then Lydia announces her big spring party—the party that everyone in the school wants to go to because yeah Lydia (and Jackson by extension) may hang out with the questionably popular now but she’s still the queen of Beacon High and her parties are the stuff of _legend_. And everything changes.

Because her party is happening on the full moon, and the entire pack is going to be there (which is a surefire recipe for disaster because _really_ Lydia? Werewolves on the full moon surrounded by alcohol and idiot high schoolers? In what world does that go well?) and Stiles is sitting close enough to Danny Mahealani (Jackson’s ex-best friend because hey, apparently Stiles wasn’t the only squishy human to be abandoned by a neo-wolf buddy) to hear him mutter, “You’d think with their condition they’d stop planning shit on the full moon.”

And Stiles freezes. Because that was Danny—innocent Danny, clueless Danny, somehow unaware of all the shit going down in Beacon Hills Danny—bitching about Lydia’s upcoming party like he knew something.

So Stiles sidles up close to Danny after class (Chemistry, with Harris, the blessedly last class of the day even if Harris is an absolute douchebag) and asks, “what do you think about werewolves, Danny-boy?”

And Danny (whip-quick, intelligent Danny) says, “I think werewolves are idiots, the locals even more so, and it’s amazing that they’ve stayed a secret as long as they have.” And Stiles laughs, because no one ever told Danny, but Danny is smart, and how did he ever fool himself into thinking that Danny didn’t know anything?

Stiles doesn’t go to Lydia’s party (he wasn’t invited anyway) and through the grapevine (Hailey whispering to Brooke by her locker) he hears that something terrible _did_ happen (“A _mountain lion_ attacked. Can you _believe_ that?”) but it must be okay because no one is missing class and Stiles’ dad only came home an hour late that night.

Instead, Stiles goes to Danny’s and eats pulled pork with his parents and little sister and follows Danny to his bedroom where they binge-watch _Star Trek_ (Picard is clearly the best fuck _off_ Danny) and eat popcorn and ignore the moon hanging fat and full in the sky. That night Stiles goes home with a full belly and Danny’s phone number and a promise to Danny’s mother to come over next Friday for game night. It’s all ridiculously normal and so far removed from the supernatural bullshit that Stiles has been dealing with that he can almost ignore the shimmer of wards on the borders of Danny’s front lawn (no sane suburbia woman would put glittering garden gnomes in all four corners of her home to _decorate_ ) that tingle with warmth when he passes through them.

At school Monday Danny slings an arm over his shoulder and ushers him to lunch at a table tucked into the far left corner (the table where Stiles and Scott used to sit, back when they were StilesandScott instead of Stiles and Scott) and says, mouth half-full of peanut butter sandwich, “You know, you have to come on Friday. My mom will probably cry if you don’t.”

So Stiles goes (leaves a note with his dad’s dinner, wrapped on a plate and left in the fridge, like he believes his Dad won’t be ecstatic to find him out of the house).

They play _Clue_ and _Monopoly_ and Danny’s mom makes an apple pie that tastes so good Stiles almost cries.

Stiles runs into Peter in WinCo frowning in the spice aisle. Peter’s nose crinkles when he sees him, and he puts down the jar of powered garlic he’s holding. He’s as immaculate as ever, v-neck so deep that his chest hair curls out of it. Stiles studiously ignores the value pack of un-iodized sea salt (“You always want salt for fairies Stiles, never iron. They can always twist iron, but you can’t manipulate salt”) already in his cart in favor of turning around and leaving the aisle as quickly as possible.

Peter stops him with a “Stiles.” (Because Peter was always the clever one, the cautious one, the one with a quick mind and quicker claws and quick, too quick, not quick enough judgement). “Why do you smell like magic?”

Stiles shrugs, wiggles his fingers (because he knows Peter hasn’t forgotten about the mountain ash, even if Scott apparently has) and winks. “I still have a few tricks left in me Creeperwolf,” he teases, voice dipping coy (coquettish, even, the kind of voice that used to make Scott frown at him—all puppy-eyes and consternation—back when Stiles had still been invited to pack meetings), “got just enough for a little ol’ razzle dazzle.”

Peter huffs, all long-suffering and belligerence—like Stiles’ answer is somehow enough for him—and stalks off in the direction of the garden section. Stiles watches him go with a twang in his chest, listening to the rattle of the cart on hard concrete floors.

Danny doesn’t seem to mind Stiles practicing his spark during movie night. Stiles keeps it subtle, limited to Danny’s room and away from the curious eyes of his parents and the child-like, wide-eyed explorations of his younger sister, but it’s there (it’s there in that Danny’s laptop never seems to die, in that even with the lights off, it’s still just bright enough to walk across the room without tripping, in that popcorn kernels pop and burst without a microwave, and the popcorn bowl is never empty). They briefly pause their _Star Trek_ marathon for a foray into _The Twilight Zone_ , but somehow neither of them can stay focused, not when Beacon Hills has already gone so far past twilight that the show feels like child’s play more than horror.

Danny invites Stiles to the zoo. It feels a little silly, like suddenly Stiles is twelve again instead of nearly eighteen, but it’s fun, and as they laugh at monkeys and marvel at giraffes and for the first time Stiles doesn’t wonder _how is the pack doing does Scott miss me are they okay_ and instead starts to think that maybe, just maybe, he’s building something new (that maybe Stiles and Danny could become StilesandDanny, if given enough time, and maybe this time they would be on equal footing, would both be squishy, Stiles wouldn’t be abandoned). Stiles trips on a curb and gets chased by a goose and Danny laughs at him until he doubles over. It’s good.

If he doesn’t leave a note this time when he goes to Danny’s for dinner, why does it matter? He leaves a plate of steamed veggies and lasagna made with whole wheat pasta in the fridge, covered with plastic wrap, and knows that his dad will not wonder where he is. He doesn’t go home that night. Instead he stays, curled up under Danny’s soft, checkerboard comforter, while Danny mindlessly sings a tune in a language Stiles doesn’t recognize, that lilts and lifts like seafoam, brushing gentle but insistent against his racing thoughts and sending him, ever so effortlessly, to sleep.

Stiles doesn’t dream that night.

In the morning, Stiles shrugs on a grey tee that Danny throws him and ignores the way Scott looks at him in class (puppy-dog eyes melting all sweet and reproaching down his spine until the back of his neck prickles with goosebumps). At lunch Jackson swerves towards their table, rage on his face and the vein in his forehead throbbing. He shoves Stiles against the wall, crowds into his space and growls, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, huh Stilinski? I don’t care if you’re feeling butthurt or whatever. How long are you gonna throw a tantrum? First you stopped talking to us and then you quit lacrosse and now what, you’re gonna pull _Danny_ into your mess? What’s your fucking damage Stilinksi?”

And Stiles is left sputtering, because _he_ didn’t choose to leave the pack, and _they_ stopped talking to him first and yeah he quit lacrosse but he’d only ever played for Scott and _what_ did Jackson mean about pulling Danny into _what_ mess? But before Stiles can say any of that, can begin to defend himself Jackson is hauled off him by a Danny with fire in his eyes, muscles bulging as squishy human wrenches werewolf off squishy human.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing Whittemore?” Danny snarls. “I thought beating on Stiles stopped being cool last year.”

He shouldn’t be threatening, objectively isn’t compared to Jackson’s gold eyes and scaled skin, but somehow he is, eyes gone black and sharp as obsidian, fist clenched in Jackson’s perfect, pressed button-up (Stiles feels a rush of _something_ thrum through him, warm and happy and a little bit dumbfounded at the defense, any defense, the first defense he’d received since the nogitsune). Jackson scurries away with a spat _don’t be a fucker Stilinski_ and his tail between his legs. Danny sits down at the lunch table, gestures for Stiles to join him, and that’s that.

Two weeks before prom, Harris pauses his lecture, taps his fingers against the whiteboard, and introduces a transfer student (his name is Collin Albers, six foot two with thread-thin beach-sand hair and sky-blue eyes that shift across the classroom, shallow and disinterested).

Stiles watches him for a week for any hint of supernatural bullshit, watches him take notes in class, go to the library after, walk home to a green-painted two-story with two parents (Stiles _isn’t_ jealous, he’s not) and a small, yapping dog named _Flooflsie_. Danny tags along, ducks behind library stacks with him, peeks into fenced-in backyards, and through it all tells Stiles he’s crazy (and he might be, but there was Ms. Blake and Mr. Douglas and Gerard and Aiden and Ethan and is Stiles crazy if he’s right?). Beacon High is cursed, and transfers and new teachers are always werewolves or witches or things that go bump in the night and _always_ one-hundred percent bad news, one hundred percent _evil_ (except Collin isn’t, maybe? Collin is a seventeen-year-old boy who goes to school and goes to the store and never gets furry or grows teeth or flashes golden eyes and Stiles cannot believe it).

A week later Stiles is forced to admit that somehow, against the odds and every paranoid bit within him screaming, Collin Albers is totally and completely, without mistake, _mundane_.

Danny laughs at him.

The next monster of the week is garden gnomes, which technically shouldn’t be a problem, except they’re relentless little fuckers with sharp teeth and sharper fingernails who somehow get it in their heads that the flowers used to decorate the prom are _theirs_. Stiles _would_ be annoyed, except he figured out how to deal with garden gnomes the last time they’d had an issue with them, and watching the pack run around desperately during the dance without his help (and really, they deserve that, don’t they?) while he wears a borrowed suit and fucks around with Danny instead, soothes a petty, bitter part of him that on the good days he tries to pretend doesn’t exist.

If he zaps one of the gnomes with his spark when the little monster starts to crawl towards Danny’s chair? That’s neither here nor there (even if Danny, whip-quick Danny, notices with a raised eyebrow and a soft smirk).

“Are you going to help?” Danny asks as they watch Erica stomp past, looking pristine as a picture, storm-strong in a deep blue gown, tulle flowing like water with each jerking step. Stiles knows it’s because a gnome bit her ankle. Danny knows too.

Stiles shakes his head. “They don’t want the squishy human to get hurt, remember? I should stay out of it.”

Danny raises an eyebrow again (the _feeling petty?_ unspoken but blatantly understood). He shrugs, and stands, brushing non-existent crumbs from his slacks. “Wanna go get curly fries?”

Stiles stands with him, throwing a last, lazy look at the auditorium. His eyes are dancing as he bumps up against Danny, a fairy-fast glimmer gone too quick. “Fuck yeah,” he replies, looping his arm through Danny’s, “I’m starving.”

A car explodes in the school parking lot. It happens the same night as prom, but much later, sometime between three and four in the morning, long after students are gone (and garden gnomes cleared out). Stiles’ dad checks it out, and Derek lurks around the site, but by seven am both leave and the case is passed off to a junior detective. 

Stiles and Danny (or are they StilesandDanny now?) run into the pack over milkshakes, a week and a half into summer. (Scott hadn’t signed Stiles’ yearbook, Stiles hadn’t asked him to, and somehow, it doesn’t bother Stiles at all). Scott looks haggard, and there’s Peter, clever Peter, hanging in the back with his arms crossed against his chest, looking old and wise and fed up with children.

Lydia is fire-red and glowing, spilling knowledge with every step, and she flounces to their table with the confidence of someone who has never really been wrong before, not where it _counts_. “What do you know about selkies, Stiles?” she asks.

And suddenly Stiles is choking oreo cookie crunch milkshake all over the table, Danny stuffing his hand over his mouth like he isn’t laughing his ass off (the bastard), and Scott is frowning, eyebrows dropping kicked-puppy sad, reproaching and distrustful.

Jackson is not sad. Instead he is cut from cold rage, a block of ice at the end of his rope, and he shoves himself in front of the pack with a jut of his chin. “This isn’t fucking funny Mahealani. Shut the fuck up. Stilinski, pay goddamn attention.”

It brings Stiles to a standstill, cuts the humor to the quick (because they can be cruel to Stiles, _have_ been cruel to Stiles, but not Danny, never Danny, Danny does not deserve cruelty, not with his soft comforter and warm shirts and dumb _dumb_ opinions on _Star Trek_ ). So Stiles straightens, wipes his face, pushes his milkshake away and turns to the pack, amber eyes burning now, cold in their fury. “What did you need?”

And Jackson steps back, maybe subconsciously. Stiles can feel his spark thrumming beneath his skin, crackling in his fingers like lightning, and ozone bleeds into the air. The wolves seem to cower, but Lydia steps forward, foolishly unfazed and still flush with pride. “Selkies, Stiles, what do you know?”

“Why are you asking?”

And oh, Peter’s raised an eyebrow now, is watching Stiles with something like quiet fascination, or maybe wonder (a little bit left for the ol’ razzle-dazzle indeed).

“We just think they’re interesting. Lydia’s writing a paper,” Scott volunteers. The excuse is weak, but then, his excuses have always been weak. His eyes are cloudy with confusion, bleached brown instead of alpha red.

“Is that so? What inspired that? Her _collector’s edition_ of _Grimm’s Fairy Tales_?” Stiles scoffs, ignoring the flinch rippling through the entire pack, the way Derek’s lip curls into a barely-there snarl. “What does that have to do with me? I don’t help with research, remember? That’s Lydia’s job. It’s her paper anyway. Not like she needs input from someone _breakable_.” And Scott jerks forward then, hand raised as if to refute him. Nothing comes out of his mouth. Nothing _can_ come out of his mouth, not with Danny right there, not when Danny doesn’t _know_ (the fact that Danny _does_ know is something Stiles will be keeping to himself, thank you).

“It’s not like it’s as important as research,” Lydia sniffs. “We just want to know what you remember. See if my paper is missing anything.”

And Stiles stands at that, because this is stupid, and he hates it, and he doesn’t want to have to listen to these people tell him (again) to leave. Danny stands with him, and again Stiles finds himself grateful (because Danny is like him, Danny is squishy too, Danny is human, but most importantly, Danny _cares_ ).

“I’m sure you’ll be fine without me then,” Stiles spits, “since it’s just for a _paper_.” He stalks away after that, Danny following behind him as he makes his way back towards Roscoe, back towards safety and Danny’s house and as far away as possible from the pack.

Danny catches his eye as he buckles his seatbelt, a flicker of mischief in his gaze as he asks, “Are they gonna be okay without your help?”

Stiles laughs, full-bodied and singing at the edges. “I don’t know if they’ll be okay, but whatever their problem is, it isn’t selkies. There isn’t enough water deep enough anywhere near here, and selkies legit can’t survive that long without fully submerging, plus selkie skin gets _smelly_ if it’s left alone for too long without being worn, and no selkie would ever abandon their skin, so yeah. Selkies aren’t their problem.”

Three days later, Stiles hears through the grapevine (Isaac and Jackson talking during lacrosse practice where Danny could overhear) that it was _sirens_.

The diner catches fire, the stove going up in a whoosh of smoke and gas. Nothing explodes on sheer luck alone, and when the fire is put out half the diner is left standing, a blackened-out husk that smells of burnt curly fries. The same junior detective in charge of the car explosion takes charge of the case, and Scott and Derek and the pack are nowhere to be seen.

(Stiles phone pings. A text from Peter, unexpected but not unwelcome. _Diner fire isn’t supernatural. Pack ignoring it._ )

It’s as good a go ahead as Stiles will ever get, and that night as he staggers up the stairs at Danny’s house, the taste of Mrs. Mahealani’s apple pie still lingering on his tongue, he asks, “Hey Danny, wanna help me catch an arsonist?” (Stiles doesn’t tell Danny that it’s petty, doesn’t mention that, yeah he wants to find the fucker who lit the place on fire and rake him over the coals for the sole reason that now, he’ll have to drive to the next town over for curly fries, but even mores so just wants to prove to _someone_ that he can still be useful, doesn’t deserve to be thrown away). Danny nods, shrugs on a jacket, and follows Stiles to his car.

Danny and Stiles are at the library, reading through studies on arsonists and how-to guides for bomb making (part for education and part from curiosity, and definitely not on Danny’s computer at home, because Danny is already on enough federal watchlists, thank you, and would not like to be on any more) when the transfer, Collin Albers, all but falls into the seat next to them with a sigh and a “I hope your summer is going well, because let me tell you, I’m fucking bored here.”

Stiles looks at him, then looks at Danny (because they never really talked to Collin, did they? Never really gave him a reason to approach them) and says, “It’s good enough, I guess? What, not used to a small town?”

And Collin snorts, splaying out to fill the space, legs kicked wide as he replies, “Fuck no man. I grew up in Vegas. This entire place is smaller than my middle school.” He snorts a little. “What’d y’all think of the diner fire? I’m like, definitely pissed about it because where am I gonna get my milkshakes now, ya feel? But at the same time, like, that’s gotta be the most exciting thing to happen here in like, ever, right?”

Stiles doesn’t respond to that (but _wow_ , if only Collin knew, shit like that is a regular _Tuesday_ ), feels Danny stiffen next to him. Stiles shoots him a look, then turns back to the book he was reading. Collin props his feet up on the desk (which, _rude_ , people sign up to wait for computers in the library, what is he doing occupying a computer desk if he doesn’t plan to use one?) and pulls out his phone. Danny closes out of the webpage he’s on, nudging Stiles with his foot. He’s tense, Stiles can see it in the way he’s holding himself, how his shoulders are high around his ears, the quick _tap tap tap_ of his leg against Stiles’ own. Stiles’ phone pings.

 **Danny Boy [2:37 pm]:** lets leave

Stiles looks up then, sees the way that Danny’s eyebrows have begun to crease together. He doesn’t get it, but he nods.

Collin looks up when they begin to pack up. “You leaving cuz of me?” he asks, grin cocksure and vapid on his face. It’s Danny who replies.

“Nah, I gotta go pick up my sister.” He nods toward a clock, “Besides, our time was almost up.” Stiles ignores the little lie, knows they still had half an hour left, knows Mrs. Mahealani picked up Danny’s sister an hour ago, ignores it all for the quirk in Danny’s brow and the way his fists _clench unclench clench_ at his sides.

“Ah,” Collin hums, “Makes sense. I’d hate to scare you off. Been kinda a boring summer you know? It’d be nice to have friends.” And Stiles _almost_ feels bad (almost understands, remembers the lonely feeling, the single squishy human in a room of wolves made of boulders).

But then he looks at Danny ( _his_ Danny, clever whip-quick Danny who clearly _does not want_ to be here) and says, “sorry we can’t hang longer dude. We gotta head out though.” He raises his hand in a mock salute. “Good luck.”

If Danny leans towards him as they drive back to his house, leans against him as they watch _Star Trek: First Contact_ , scoots close to Stiles during dinner, Stiles doesn’t say anything. That night, Danny sings, voice lilting in the starlight, again in a language Stiles doesn’t know. Stiles slips into sleep, and dreams of melancholy.

In the morning Danny smiles, wry and self-deprecating as he says, “sorry about yesterday. He just, I dunno. Feels slimy. Talking to him makes my skin crawl.”

And Stiles doesn’t mind (wraps an arm around his shoulder and draws him in tight) and says, “It’s all good man. It’s not like we’re gonna hang out with him anyway.”

Mid-June, Jackson corners Stiles by Roscoe in a move that suggests he’s been lurking in the parking lot. He’s tired, bags under his eyes that even werewolf healing can’t beat and he’s twitchy in a way that Stiles has never seen before, a way that suggests he hasn’t slept well in a while, is looking over his shoulder, is afraid. It’s odd, the way Stiles doesn’t feel hostility (shoved against a locker or pushed into a stall, head dunked and backpack in the trash and left feeling small and weak and alone). Instead it’s concern that’s leaking off him, slipping into the air and dyeing the parking lot with worry. “I need to know what you’re doing with Danny, Stilinski.”

And Stiles feels a pang, because Jackson _cares_. Jackson is actually asking, actually wants to know the answer. (And Stiles can’t help it, has to answer him, feels it in his bones the same way he feels his spark, lets the honesty wriggle through him).

“He’s my friend,” Stiles says (ignores the _thump thump thump_ in his chest, the way it feels a little bit like betrayal, like the death rattle of StilesandScott). He smiles. “That’s all.”

Jackson nods, and as quick as he’d come, he leaves.

Danny and Stiles go camping. At first it’s only a day trip, but then Mrs. Mahealani gets carried away with cooking, and Mr. Mahealani loads up sleeping bags and a tent and firewood into Roscoe with a strict _it isn’t a real camping trip if you don’t sleep outside for a night_ and like that, Stiles and Danny are ready to leave for a weekend.

Stiles doesn’t tell his dad where he’s going, doesn’t think he’ll care, or even notice, not with a new whiskey bottle on the shelf and all of his guilt to mire him, not with vampires running around (because apparently that’s what the pack is fighting now, is why Jackson looked so tired, so afraid). Instead he puts yogurt and eggs in the fridge, along with enough meals to cover four lunches and three dinners and one late night snack, and a note that says _be back Monday, take care_ , and calls it good enough.

They stop at a gas station halfway to the campground, taking a break to pee and stretch their legs. Danny buys a bag of chips, chapstick and some jerky. Stiles buys himself enough starbursts to last the rest of the summer. They blast a Bad Bunny album that Danny borrowed from one of the queens at The Jungle and by the time they finally roll into their campsite and pay the park host the reggaeton beat is so firmly stuck in Stiles’ head that Danny threatens to break his hand the next time he taps his fingers.

They set up their tent (and so _what_ if Stiles didn’t want to read the directions? Tents can’t be that hard, can they Danny?) and their camp chairs and light a fire, and which point Danny realizes they didn’t pack graham crackers (though they remembered chocolate and marshmallows just fine), so Stiles digs out the hamburger buns and creates the grossest bastardization of a smore that either of them has ever eaten. They impale hotdogs on sticks and wait for the meat to turn brown and delicious and for the skin to crack open and drip juices everywhere, and Danny pulls out a six-pack of beer he stole from his parents’ fridge, and together they watch the night fall. Danny starts to sing, and his voice trembles in the trees, swelling until the branches quake with his melody and the tune is reflected in the stars. Stiles’ spark burns hot and bright in his chest, and that night, Stiles dreams of the ocean.

They hike to a waterfall in the morning.

It is hot and Stiles sweats enough to flood a small town, but when they reach the waterfall his fatigue melts away. Danny is beaming. He pulls off his shirt, steps beneath the water, and for a moment Stiles almost thinks he glows (or glimmers, like the sun on a lake on a windless, warm late afternoon). His spark zings up his spine.

That night they eat hamburgers and Danny berates Stiles for wasting the buns (because now they have to eat their burgers on normal bread, like some kind of uncomfortable sandwich severely lacking in sesame seeds, but somehow it’s still one of the most delicious things Stiles has ever had). They roast more marshmallows and throw pieces of chocolate at each other and swap stories and insults and small insecurities until the embers burn low, autumn-leaf orange in June, trapped in the firepit.

This time, when Danny sings, Stiles joins in. His contribution is wordless, a quiet warbling in the background of the song slipping from Danny’s lips, but the sounds twine together like smoke, melting into the sky with their campfire, tingeing the air with a lingering electricity.

(Stiles could get lost in this, this feeling, the way the flames dance in Danny’s gaze and flicker across his skin, cast him in gold like a treasure to be hoarded, eyes obsidian-sharp and somehow still full of _comfort_ ).

This time, Danny falls asleep first, song dying out, soaked up by the trees as Stiles carries him to his sleeping bag. This time, Stiles finds himself unable to sleep ( _unwanting_ to sleep), savoring the way the mountain air pushes crisp and candid in his lungs, the stars and their pale wash of light, the full fat moon. Stiles waves a hand, lets his spark slip free from his grasp to glitter in the night, twisting into shapes and lines that curl into themselves, constrict and contrast into something new, something warm and solid that settles into the forest around them and wards them from the darkness.

 _Then_ Stiles sleeps, and his dreams are full of music, sung in a tongue he does not know.

The library catches fire on July fourth.

Officially, it’s blamed on a stray firework and plain bad luck. Unofficially, it’s handed to the same junior detective in charge of the exploding car and the diner fire, with stern instructions to find the arsonist without causing a panic, and to find them quickly. The building is closed until it can be repaired, and Stiles and Danny start hanging out at Danny’s house instead, much to the delight of Mrs. Mahealani.

They finish all of _Star Trek_ (except the most recent movies, which Danny for some reason staunchly refuses to watch) and move on to _90s Animated Batman_ like it doesn’t send a pang through Stiles’ chest, doesn’t remind him of Erica and Scott and _pack_ and nights in a loft wrapped in wolves spent comparing themselves to superheroes.

If Danny notices he doesn’t say anything. They lay shoulder to shoulder and watch as Bruce Wayne darts across Danny’s laptop screen, fighting Penguin and Joker and Poison Ivy and Dr. Freeze until the pain smooths into nostalgia into something new and _Danny_ that makes Stiles smile.

Stiles is poking around the nursery section of the supermarket, looking for a pothos. Danny had recommended one, said they were hard to kill (“You’ll do better with something you can forget to water, Stiles,”) and nice to have around. So Stiles is looking, partly because yeah, it would be nice to have something green around, but mostly because Danny is busy and Stiles is bored.

He runs into Peter. Or more accurately, Peter runs into him. Which how? (Because Peter is a wolf, with enhances senses and reflexes and should be more than capable of not running into the breakable squishy human, into _Stiles_ ). Peter steps back, has the grace to look ashamed, opens his mouth to apologize.

But Stiles stops him, speaks first with a, “what do you want Peter?” (Because Stiles knows Peter, knows Peter is smart and methodical and does not ever do anything that will not benefit him, no matter how badly _Scott_ wants to believe that’s Peter’s interests are for the pack).

And Peter rocks back on his heels, shoulders straight, eyes quirked (“You’re clever,” Peter had whispered to him, claws tight around his wrist, “You’d make a wonderful wolf.”) and says, “I know it’s not your business, and you certainly don’t have to help, but wolves are _bad_ at vampires, and Scott is incompetent.” It’s as much a cry for help as Stiles has ever received, made more unsettling by its messenger, a man that Stiles has never known to bow his head.

“How can I help?” Stiles asks (and maybe he’ll regret this, just a little, but for now all he sees is Peter’s pride set aside, and the last, warbling echo of StilesandScott).

Later, Peter walks away with twenty stakes, bought from the garden section and glittering softly with magic (a mix of sunlight and belief, not in any god but in Stiles himself, brutal and burning and certain to harm). Peter looks up as he leaves, smiling softly, and says, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you were sent away. Call me if you ever need a wolf.”

Stiles drives to Danny’s. Mrs. Mahealani greets him at the door, offers him pie, and tells him Danny will be home soon. Stiles thanks her, trudges upstairs and falls asleep in Danny’s bed.

Four days later, Stiles is laying on his floor, half-awake and completely unmotivated to do _anything_ productive, lazily using his spark to soundproof his room, then un-proof it, then soundproof it again, when his phone rings.

It’s an unknown number, and probably spam, but Stiles answers the call anyway, because the day passing at a snail’s pace and Danny is at lacrosse practice and Stiles is _bored_. “Hello?”

The answering voice is tinny, excited and undeniably Collin. Stiles isn’t sure how he got his number (is fairly certain he never gave it to him, has never spoken to him long enough to want to share it). “Eyy! Stiles, man, hey! What are you up to dude? Like, anything cool?”

And Stiles is _not_ up to anything cool (is never up to anything cool, not anymore, and especially not when Danny isn’t around) but he lies anyway, says, “oh hey man, what’s up? And yeah actually, I’m kinda working on a project right now, you know, taking advantage of the summer and shit.”

Collin responds with a laugh, and, “Oh man, I feel that. I’ve been working on a project too actually! Working my way up. You got a deadline for yours?”

And Stiles flounders, because of course he doesn’t have a deadline. He doesn’t even have a _project_ , but, “ah yeah I mean, I don’t really know. Before school starts up again I guess. You?”

“July 28th,” Collin replies. He sounds smug (and what is _happening_? Since when did they _talk_?).

“Oh, that’s coming up soon.” Stiles doesn’t really care, doesn’t know why he’s still on the phone (except he does, because he’s _bored_ , and lacrosse practice just ended so Danny won’t be over for at least another ten or fifteen minutes), so he asks, “what do you have to do to finish on time?” And Collin starts rambling, here and there, talking about research and location and feedback—and Stiles starts practicing with his spark again, puts the phone on speaker. He encases his phone in a bubble, makes it float, makes the bubble soundproof and then loud again, alternating between the two, faster and faster, until Collin’s voice sounds like a skipping record and Stiles can barely understand the words.

Twelve minutes later, the front door slams and Danny stomps up the stairs. He freezes when he sees the floating phone, but Stiles just grins at him, gestures him closer with a finger against his lips. _Collin Albers_ , he mouths, _some project he’s doing_. Danny frowns at him, eyebrows raised in clear disapproval, the _did you have to answer the phone_ clear in the air. Stiles just grins, lets the phone drop back onto his bedspread, return to normal as Collin’s voice crackles through the speakers with a, “—really, like, the hardest thing about it is getting enough feedback. I really want it to like, wow, you know? Gotta make it really exciting.”

He pauses, and Stiles and Danny stare at each other. _What is he talking about now?_ Danny mouths. Stiles shrugs back. _Who knows? Project still?_

“Anyway,” Collin breaks back in, his voice cheery even through the speakers. “You guys like, heard about the library fire, right? Totally wild, huh?”

They’re a little past halfway through July when Scott knocks on Stiles’ door, expression open and reproaching, eyebrows scrunched in confusion when he notices Danny, sitting on the living room couch as Batman plans a prison breakout in the background. Stiles gapes, reeling from the surprise as if it were a physical punch, staring at Scott open-mouthed (because why is Scott here? Scott hasn’t been over since before the school year ended, hasn’t spoken to Stiles since that time in the diner, has excised Stiles so thoroughly from his life Stiles didn’t think Scott still knew he existed).

“Yo Stiles, what’s up?” Scott asks, like he’s come over to play Rocket League and eat half a pint of ice cream (like his presence is _expected_ , instead of the biggest surprise Stiles’ has had since the time a few weeks ago that Danny admitted to Stiles that _fine, yes Stiles you’re attractive to gay guys_ ).

Stiles stares. Scott stares back. He moves to shove past Stiles into the house and Stiles springs into action, shoves his arm up against the doorframe like a particularly flimsy barrier, fills the doorway as best he can and asks, “What do you want Scott?”

Scott frowns. Like Stiles is stupid for asking. Like Stiles should _know_. And oh. _Oh_. Stiles does know. He gets it now.

It ends like this: Scott stands on the front porch, eyes melted chocolate puppy sweet, like he’s talking about the forecast instead of the gaping hole where their friendship used to be, the ScottandStiles turned Scott, and Stiles, as he says, easy as breathing, “I figured we could hang for a bit. It’s been a while man.”

And Stiles laughs—chokes really—the sound coming out garbled and aborted (Danny jerks at the noise, like he’s about to spring from the couch and come to Stiles’ aid like some sort of prince charming dressed in sweatpants). Stiles looks at Scott, sweet, ever-righteous, black and white Scott, says, “yeah I don’t think so,” and slams the door in his face.

Danny stands up, walks over to him, drapes an arm over his shoulder and says, “Wanna go get curly fries?” And Stiles nods, starts pulling on his shoes in a haze, while Danny grabs his coat and his wallet and his keys (even though the nearest curly fries are forty-five minutes away in the next town over, ever since the Beacon Hills diner burnt down), ushers Stiles into the passenger seat, starts his car, and that’s that.

It’s _probably_ not Collin. Stiles knows this. Danny knows this. Yet somehow, neither of them can shake the feeling (heavy and overbearing and sliding like oil into their doubts, settling there like grime that chokes an engine) that Collin is setting the fires.

Collin hasn’t really even done anything to make them think he’s guilty. He just makes Danny uncomfortable, seems a little too pushy about talking to Stiles, calls at weird times always talking about his _project_. Not necessarily indicative of an arsonist. He could just be horrible at making friends. But _still_.

Except he’s just so _normal_. Stiles has to double check, lets his spark crawl across the pavement at the pool, until it can slip across Collin’s towel and brush against his calf, poking and prodding for any hint of magic, of fur, of _anything_ that could tie him to the supernatural. But there’s nothing. He’s human, mundane, boring, and as such, _completely_ unpredictable.

“I mean, why would he do it?” Stiles asks, legs flopped over the side of Danny’s bed, staring at the glow in the dark stars dotting all across the ceiling. “Aside from the car, nothing has been completely destroyed by the fires, more like, half destroyed, no one’s gotten hurt. It hasn’t even been _acknowledged_ as a serial arson case by the cops.” Stiles counts on his fingers. “He’s not getting any fame—or infamy I guess—from it. It’s _highly_ unlikely he’s after revenge, considering no one has gotten hurt yet. And the places he’s burning don’t really have any major impact, not like the hospital or the police station or the courthouse would, so it probably isn’t some type of vigilante justice powerplay thing either. So, what does he want?”

Danny hums, fingers tapping idly against Stile’s thigh in a reggaeton beat. “Excitement maybe?”

And Stiles stills. “What?”

“Think about it,” Danny replies, fingers still now as he sits up on the bed. “Every time we’ve talked to him, what does he always complain about?”

_Ah._

“That Beacon Hills is boring,” Stiles says, starting to see now where Danny is going with this. “That he wants something interesting to happen.”

Danny nods. “And what has he said about the fires? Both times?”

Stiles is nodding now, following along with the train of thought. “That they were exciting.”

He sits for a moment, stewing. It’s _probably_ not Collin. But at the same time, it _would_ be Collin wouldn’t it. After all he’s _too_ normal, too harmless to be a transfer student at Beacon High (at the school that had Gerard as a principal and Jennifer Blake as a teacher and Ms. Morrell as a counselor and Ethan and Aiden and Theo and Matt as students. He groans. Leave it to Beacon Hills to finally get some new, not-supernatural blood, only for it to turn out to be an _arsonist_.

“Hey Danny,” Stiles asks, dread pitting in his stomach, “out of curiosity, do you know if there’s anything scheduled for the twenty-eighth this month?”

There _is_ something scheduled. Beacon High’s open house. 

It’s more for the parents than the kids, aimed at letting people tour the school, talk to teachers if they want, familiarize themselves with their children’s classes and schedules before the school year really begins. Stiles has never gone to it, not even before his life turned into a steaming pile of shit, but Danny goes every year (he rolls his eyes when Stiles mentions it, laughs a little and says, _you’ve met my parents. Do you think they’d ever let me get away with not going with them_?) so that night Stiles and Danny pile into Roscoe, promise Mrs. Mahealani that they’ll bring back supply lists and teacher phone numbers and cookies from the bake sale if she just _stays home_ , and head to the school.

Danny taps his foot the whole way, lips pressed together so tightly they bleach white with the tension, and Stiles subconsciously presses harder on the gas, tries to get them there even a second faster, his spark crackling ember hot beneath his skin.

(He sends a text to Peter, a brief _Beacon High. If you can get away, I might need a wolf_ ).

Except when they get there, everything is fine. There are tables set up all around the gymnasium. Parents and children are milling about. Harris is frowning at some poor mother and looking generally put out. Some of the younger kids are playing a frankly dangerous game of tag (Stiles dodges to the left just before a little girl with pink shoes and pig-tails bowls into him, nearly toppling Danny in the process). Stiles pauses, probes the room with his spark, searching for anything odd, anything out of place. But there’s nothing.

He and Danny collect supply lists instead. They stand in line for the bake sale. They buy three lemon bars and a bag of six double chocolate chip cookies (half of which they then split between the two of them, slouched against the wall). The principal had just grabbed a mic, was prepping to say something (probably not important, probably a _thanks for coming we can’t wait to torture your children for nine months_ ) when someone taps Stiles on the shoulder.

Stiles looks to his right, curious, and comes face to face with Collin Albers’ shit-eating grin. “Hey,” Collin whispers, hand still hovering just above Stiles’ shoulder, “wanna see something cool?” He nods to Stiles’ left. “Danny should come too. It’s gonna be dope.”

“What is?” Stiles asks back, ignoring the way the Danny tenses, even as he follows behind them.

Collin laughs. “My project,” he says, “it’s finally done.”

Stiles isn’t sure what he says to respond to that, but it’s something along the lines of _oh that’s cool dude I know you’ve been working really hard on it_ as he tries not to panic. Behind him, Danny is noticeably distressed now, chewing on his lip to the point of near blood. Collin leads them to the chemistry lab, talking the entire way about variables and _getting things right_ and the perfect balance of this and that (Stiles fumbles in his pocket, pulls out his phone, sees a _still need a wolf?_ from Peter and replies _yes_ ). When they arrive at the lab Collin spins around, grin splitting his face in half as he says, “are you ready to see the masterpiece?”

Stiles can only nod.

It’s a bomb.

There’s no other way to describe it. It’s a bullshit bomb, made with bullshit chemistry, similar to a Molotov cocktail except it doesn’t need to be thrown to ignite, and according to Collin, he’s made five and the other four are planted _all over the school_. Stiles is gaping, beside him Danny has gone still, and for the first time that night Stiles is _very_ grateful that they managed to convince Mrs. Mahealani to stay home.

“Are you _insane_?” Stiles spits out, suddenly wishing that Collin was supernatural (because god _damn_ yeah werewolves and vampires and fairies and gnomes and whatever all else were annoying as hell but at least they were _predictable,_ not like this psychopathic, one-hundred-percent all-human _nutcase_ ). “You’ll kill us all, kill everyone in this fucking school. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

And Collin laughs, teeth glinting too-white. “You won’t die.” He sneers. “No one will die. Not if they’re _smart_ anyway. It’s not _that_ dangerous. Yeah you might get a burn or two but as long as you’re not like, standing on it when it blows, and you don’t stick around to, y’know, burn to death, you’ll be fine. They’re more like fancy fire starters really. Not bombs.”

“It’s fucking _fire_ ,” Stiles hisses. “And there are kids out there. Young kids. Who won’t know what to do if there’s a fire, who might find your, your _fire starters_ and try to play with them.”

“Not my problem,” Collin shrugs. Stiles wants to grab his neck and shake him. “I don’t care if a brat gets hurt.”

“They might _die_ ,” Stiles spits back.

Collin laughs again, leaning forward, into Stiles’ space like Stiles isn’t seriously beginning to contemplate murder. “And that would be _very_ exciting, wouldn’t it?” he asks. “Besides,” he follows up, stepping back out of Stiles’ space, “they really aren’t that dangerous. I’ll show you.”

Many things happen then.

Collin knocks over the bomb. There’s a roar. Danny grabs Stiles. Someone is singing. Peter bursts through the door. An explosion. A cabinet combusts. A countertop burns. Danny jerks against Stiles. Is flung against the door. Peter’s eyes glow blue. Collin laughs. Red drips onto Stiles’ shirt. A crescendo and a rush, a blaze, then a pause, and then silence.

Stiles is heaving, staring at the blood dripping down Danny’s temple with horror (he must have been hit with _something_ , had protected Stiles from the blast), Peter watching him from where he stands over Collin, expression blown wide with something Stiles’ could only describe as _awe_.

“ _What_ did you _do_?” Peter breathes out. “ _How_ did you, that’s not—what?”

And Stiles gapes back, chest still heaving and head beginning to ache, the smell of ozone nearly suffocating. He looks around him, takes in the blackened walls, the half-charred furniture, the warped and melted equipment (and _oh shit_ is that mangled half-melted pile of metal where the _benson burners_ used to be because if so Harris is going to _kill him_ ), before looking down, at himself and his hands, at Danny, miraculously unburnt, and Peter, suit still immaculate, not a speck of ash on him. “I don’t,” Stiles begins, “I mean, I—my spark?” It comes out like a question, but somehow the answer makes Peter snort.

“I think that’s a little more than _razzle dazzle_ ,” he finally says, expression deadpan.

“Well,” Stiles says, more to break the silence than answer, when a scream rips from down the hall, followed by an unmistakable _FIRE!_

“Fuck,” Stiles groans, his body like lead, too tired to stand even with adrenaline coursing through his system. “There’s four more Peter.” He says, ignoring the way that Peter’s posture straightens, the tight line of his lips, “four more of those bomb things. I can’t—can you—I’m really fucking tired.”

And Peter looks at him, _really_ looks, his expression doing something complicated and twisty before he nods, just once, and leaves the room with a near indiscernible _I’ll take care of it_. Stiles slumps, fight gone out of him, trusting Peter to keep his word. He looks back at Danny, scooting over, pulling Danny’s head into his lap (Danny is still bleeding, slow and sluggish, crusted rust brown at the edges and tinging Stiles’ fingertips in copper) as he whispers, to himself and the half-burnt room, “It’ll be okay. You’re going to make it. You’ll be fine.”

He drags his fingers up to Danny’s temple, drags them lightly over the wound there, tries not to panic at the thought that _Danny isn’t awake Danny isn’t conscious Danny is a squishy human who can die_ as he pushes his spark through his hands, through his fingers to where he’s cradling Danny and believes, with everything in him, with everything that he has, that Danny will be okay.

He wakes up in a hospital room, two days later, to a sleeping Danny at his bedside and a newspaper dated from the day before, proudly announcing that the local teen suspected of causing the school fire had been arrested, and would likely be facing charges for other arson incidents as well. The front page photo is of Collin Albers, head ducked down as he’s ushered into a squad car by the same junior detective who’s been put in charge of the previous arson cases. Danny stirs beside him, and Stiles watches him, warmed at the thought of a friend, of _his_ friend, of squishy too-sweet, so-smart Danny, waiting at his bedside.

This may not be StilesandScott (there will be time for that later, when Scott hears about the arson and the danger and approaches, all puppy-dog whimper and savior complex, to berate him for not reporting to the pack sooner, to ask _why didn’t you tell me?_ ), but it is DannyandStiles, and Stiles is beginning to find he likes that better. 

Of course, it’s at _game night_ months later that the truth comes out, when Danny’s little sister knocks over a cup (Danny’s mother leaps forward, the cup looking for a split second like it’s floating, before catching it and placing it back on the table, still full of milk, with a firm “that is for you to _drink_ , not redecorate my floors with young lady”). Stiles stares, feeling the warm tingle of magic fill up the room (crawling up his spine, coating his arms like a thick blanket) until Danny’s mother turns to him and says, hand on her hip, “please tell me that you’ve figured out I’m a witch by now Stiles. Come on. You’re a _spark_.”

And just like that, Stiles is back in the supernatural bullshit again, glittering garden gnomes and all, looking at Danny’s sheepish smile and the magic glittering like a sunlit lake at dawn on his skin (millions of diamonds, no real color, glancing in the light) and wondering how the fuck he missed it.

(“Are you a witch too?” Stiles asks Danny later, after he’s won _Clue_ and lost _Monopoly_ and they’re sitting on Danny’s bed again watching _Star Trek_. Danny smiles, a sugar-soft hidden thing, and begins to sing).

**Author's Note:**

> tadah!!! hope you enjoyed! come yell at me in the comments! (or on my discord: https://discord.gg/EF7fb8n)
> 
> xoxo, Jay


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